Simon-G294/Desperate Fire
The rocket spiraled overhead, looping in an uncertain arc before slamming down into a Scorpion. The tank vanished in a wave of burning smoke, then burst free of the shroud as its machine gun blazed away at an unseen target. The lumbering machine's armor was barely dented. "Shit!" the rebel soldier swore, tossing his launcher away and looking around desperately for a new weapon. Beside him, Simon clutched his rifle close to his chest and wormed his way deeper into the rocky dugout. The rebel turned on him before he could slink away. Simon froze as the man's desperate eyes bored into him. "Hey, kid!" he yelled. "Where are your charges? Grenades?" Simon looked up at him, putting on his best "I'm just a frightened kid" face. It didn't take much acting; he felt like a quivering mass of terror on the inside already. With a snarl of disgust, the rebel crossed over to him as bullets and explosive rounds pounded over head. "Your rifle!" he yelled over the cacophony of war. "Give it to me!" Simon hesitated. The rifle, with low penetration bullets more worthy of a submachine gun and its antiquated bayonet, was all he had out here on the battlefield. If he handed it over now, he'd be utterly helpless. "I said give it to me!" The rebel aimed a kick at Simon's face, and in the next instant he was slumped against the rocks, still twitching from where the bullets had punched through his body. Simon scrambled for cover as the tell-tale sounds of a UNSC battle rifle's three-round burst filled the air. Rocks around him shuddered and burst from near misses as he dove clear, stumbling and rolling down the rocky slope to land in a disheveled heap on the dusty ground. He was completely exposed. All it would take was for one round to hit him anywhere on his unprotected body, and he'd be finished. His rifle lay a few feet away. Pulling himself hand over hand across the dirt, he strained and grunted as he reached out for it. A year ago he'd have had armor to protect him, teammates to cover him, and the best sensor technology the UNSC had to offer to detect enemies before they could even think about targeting him. Now that shitty rifle was all he had against those same, hyper-advanced forces he had once fought for. Grabbing the rifle, he held it close and rolled over and into another pile of rocks. Shrugging off his threadbare coat, he draped it over his head and shoulders and lay still. The dugout he had just escaped from explode in a storm of dirt and rocks, obliterated by any one of the UNSC Marines' heavy weapons. Debris rained down on Simon's position, coating his body in a new layer of dust. Under the coat, he gritted his teeth and fought to keep still. Keep it together. You're not a Spartan anymore, just another kid stuck out here with the rebels. Stay out of the way and don't get shot. A whine filled the air as a Warthog rolled over a nearby hill and skidded to a halt less than a yard away, kicking even more dirt up onto Simon. His hands were gripping the rifle so hard he was sure they'd start bleeding. Every nerve in his body was recoiling in terror, an instinctive cowardice that he had learned not to be ashamed of. Heart in his mouth, he peered up at the LRV from under the coat. Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me... The Marine in the passenger seat leapt out. His tan armored boots kicked up rocks that spilled over Simon's prone form. One jagged stone struck him just above the eye. Blood trickled down his mace, but he kept absolutely still. Dropping to one knee, the Marine brought his battle rifle up to his shoulder and peered through the weapon's scope. A moment later, he turned back and yelled something back at the two men still in the Warthog. If Simon had clutched the ground any tighter he'd have been swallowed up into the dirt. The rifle's cold touch seared his thin, bare arms. A monstrous, keening roar filled the air as the Warthog's fifty millimeter rear gun came to life. The ground shook under the force of its barrage as the gunner sent a torrent of bullets up towards a distant target right over Simon's ducked head. Simon squeezed his eyes closed, fighting down a new wave of helpless panic. Who was the target? Emily? Neeraj? Sam? He hadn't seen the rest of Rat Pack since the shooting had started. Were his friends being cut to pieces while he lay hear and did nothing? What would you do? he demanded angrily even as he pushed himself even further into the hard ground. He might have been thrown onto the rebel side now, but he couldn't start killing UNSC troops, not if he hoped to return to them and escape this living hell. Surrender now wasn't an option, not with Marines this pumped on adrenaline and combat rush. And he wasn't sure how he'd live with himself is he just abandoned Emily and the Rat Pack to get slaughtered in this stupid war. He couldn't take another Team Kopis on his conscience. And so, with all his enhanced reflexes and years of grueling training, just kept still and tried not to scream out in terror. The Warthog blazed away, spent bullet shells clattering down to the ground around it. And then, after what seemed like an eternity of chain gun fire, the rumbling stopped. All Simon could hear was a faint ringing in his aching ears. The spotter clambered back into the passenger seat and the Warthog rumbled off to find its next target. Simon lay still for several more minutes. The ground continued to shudder and jerk beneath him, wracked by the pangs of war that continued to rage unabated. When he could finally hear the clatter of gunfire again, he moved slowly, pulling the coat back on and carefully pushing himself up to his knees with the but of his rifle. He gulped the open, dusty air and looked up in the direction the Warthog had been firing. A hill, larger than the others, loomed up overhead. Simon could see several huddled bodies lying amongst the rocks near its crest. Several of the bodies were very small. His breath came in short gasps. Wiping the blood from his forehead, Simon found that his skin had grown clammy amidst an alien fear that had nothing to do with the bullets flying all around him. No, don't tell me they're dead, they can't be dead, please don't be dead... Without thinking, he ducked low and ran towards the slope. His shoes--stolen just the other day off a dead rebel--crunched beneath his aching feet as he darted around bodies and wreckage left in the wake of the battle. Just as he reached the middle half of the slope, an unnatural screaming noise filled the air behind him. His quickened reflexes saved him. He threw himself down to the side just as the side of the hill exploded, blasting him away into what remained of the slope. He lay where he'd fallen, gasping for breath as his hands dug into the rubble around him. What am I doing? he thought distantly as he searched for his rifle. Not a Spartan, remember? Stay low and don't get involved! But his eyes were still drawn inexorably up towards the bodies at the top of the hill. He needed to see, needed to know who they were. What if one really was Emily? He blinked, surprised at how deeply that mere possibility cut him and ashamed at his own surprise. Finding his rifle half-buried in the dirt, he wrenched it free and scrabbled up the rest of the slope. Simon was no stranger to human corpses. He had seen plenty of them as a Spartan and countless more in this meat grinder of a rebellion. Stepping over the mangled bodies of two adults, he reached down and rolled over the first child soldier he found. The boy could only have been about twelve, but he was not a member of Rat Pack. Interest lost, Simon left him where he lay and moved on to the next corpse. You learned to be cold about death out here. Two more unfamiliar children were inspected and summarily abandoned, though Simon did pocket a grenade the last one had clutched in her partially severed hand. It was only when he checked the fourth and final corpse that he found someone he recognized. Karl, his ruddy face turned pale by blood loss, gaped up at him from a pool of coagulating blood. The farm boy whose parents had been caught up in the crossfire between colonial troops and rebels had at least chosen a side before the war had claimed him. Simon blinked down at the dead boy. Just last night Karl had snuck a whole crate of rations away from the food shuttle to pass out amidst the dugout their little gang had claimed for their own. Then he had blushed awkwardly at Emily's praise; now he stared into the dull sky, face drained of all life and color. Karl's rifle was under his body, and Simon slid it gently out from under him. Emily would want to plant it on the little hill overlooking Concord, the place where they had stuck the rifles for Dan and Leon. They couldn't carry the bodies away, but at least the weapons they had been called on to take up would serve as their memorial. Slinging the spare weapon over his shoulder, Simon took a moment to close Karl's eyes. He had no words to say about his friend's passing, just a determination not to let him be forgotten. He was just about to fall back to a safer position when a short burst from an MA5 assault rifle split the air, followed by a swift cry. Simon dropped down, bringing his own rifle to bear, and carefully eased his way towards the sound of the gunfire. As he crawled forwards, he heard someone crying out, a low keening that rose and fall at regular intervals. The horrible screams were brutal, unnatural, and even with all his experience with death, Simon couldn't help but feel as if he were intruding on something terrible and private. Just below the crest, a Marine stood over a bloodied child. Simon blinked, recognizing the kid as Isaac. The thirteen year old slumped against the craggy rocks, crying out as he held on to the stump of his arm. The rest of the appendage, severed by the Marine's assault rifle blast, lay a few feet away. The Marine raised his rifle again, expressionless, to deliver a coup de grace. Simon froze, seeing it all play out before him, Karl's lifeless expression flashing in his mind's eye. He felt his hands tighten on his rifle, saw the bayoneted barrel swing up, felt the weapon clench against his shoulder as he fixed the Marine's neck in the sights. And then it shuddered as he pulled the trigger and the Marine flopped away, his face impassive even in death. It all happened in that one instant. Simon lowered the rifle with trembling hands. That was it. He had done it. To protect Isaac, to protect Rat Pack, he had killed a UNSC Marine. He felt strange, as if the arms and fingers that had done the shooting didn't belong to the rest of his body anymore. What have I done? He very nearly threw the rifle aside, to distance himself from the weapon that had done the killing. There was no going back now, not while he was with Rat Pack. He would have to kill and kill and kill again if he were going to get them out of this alive. Isaac cried out again, and Simon remembered why he had killed the Marine to begin with. Sliding down to where the boy lay, he crouched next to Isaac and realized that it had all been for nothing. There was too much blood staining the rocks beside him, and Isaac was already as pale as Karl had been. "Damn it," he whispered hoarsely, and Isaac's eyes snapped into focus. "Stray?" the boy gasped, his voice weak. "Stray? Where's... where's Emily?" "Just sit tight," Simon replied, looking around desperately. It was no use. Not even Cassandra could have pulled Isaac back from where he was now. No, don't think about Cassandra, you aren't a Spartan anymore, you'll never be, not after this, not again... "Stray," Isaac panted desperately. "Please, don't let me die." He reached up with his remaining hand and grabbed at the collar of Simon's coat. "I don't want to die!" Simon searched for something to say, and in that next instant Isaac's eyes flicked back out of focus and his arm went limp. There wasn't even any point in bandaging the wound. Isaac was gone. Simon stayed where he was, crouched by the body as the battle raged off in the distance. Isaac lay beside him, small and limp and forgotten, just one more in the stream of thousands of dead. He and Karl were just gone, lost forever here on this miserable, dustball of a planet. After another minute, Simon stood. Leaving Isaac in the pool of blood, he lifted the dead boy's rifle onto his back. They would need something for his memorial, after all. Category:Simon-G294